


My Breakfast is Straight Out of the Medicine Cabinet

by Destinyllama



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Disability, Drug Abuse, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Mild Gore, Mild Sexual Content, Trans Elias Bouchard, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, jon doesnt respect boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26167489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destinyllama/pseuds/Destinyllama
Summary: Jon continues his nosiness because he’s curious and because Elias won’t be particularly bothered. Probably. He opens the cabinet hidden behind the mirror and is surprised when he doesn’t find cosmetics. Of course, Elias keeps his medications in his medicine cabinet. Jon pauses but proceeds when the desire for understanding overtakes him. Elias wouldn't have left his medications out if he wasn't fine with someone discovering them; that's the kind of person Jon knows Elias is.Jon’s fingers trace the labels. The orange bottles are familiar to him, as he has a similar collection in his own flat. Jon is surprised by the volume of medication Elias takes. He shouldn’t be; he knows Elias is disabled, too.-----Jon is surprised by the similarities he and Elias share.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39
Collections: Jonelias Week 2020





	My Breakfast is Straight Out of the Medicine Cabinet

**Author's Note:**

> For Jonelias Week 2020. Day 5 prompt: altered mental states.
> 
> I like thinking about Elias and Jon having a lot of mental illness--its relatable  
> please mind the tags!

Jon wakes and isn’t surprised when he doesn’t find his… whatever it is they are lying next to him. Lover? Boss? Mentor? Boyfriend? Nothing quite captures their relationship. Jon isn’t surprised that Elias isn’t in bed, even though it’s —Jon squints at the digital clock on the nightstand—6:30 AM. On a Saturday. Jon runs his hands over his face. That’s such a painfully Elias thing to do: wake up far too early on a weekend.

There’s no possible way that Jon is going to get back to sleep, so he rolls out of bed. Elias made his side of the bed, folding the mint green, 800-thread-count sheets immaculately. Jon makes his own side of the bed, not wanting to be rude. He grabs his glasses, stumbles into the master bathroom, and immediately sighs when he turns on the light. The person in the mirror, with his messy bun and his oversized  _ What the Ghost? _ T-shirt stained with toothpaste, looks completely out of place in the posh white marble bathroom.

“Right, right…” Jon takes a hand towel, a hand towel embroidered with  _ EB _ , because nothing can be mundane in  _ Elias Bouchard’s _ house, no, and wipes his face down with warm water.

He takes his pill organizer out of his toiletries bag and scarfs down the handful of medication with a few sips of water. Jon sighs afterward and stares at his own reflection in the mirror. He wishes he looked… Neater.

Elias has a few things laid out on the counter: his shaving kit, which looks like it’s been lifted from a ritzy barbershop, a number of creams, moisturizers, pomades… Jon picks up something with a name like “anti-wrinkle collagen cream” and snorts. Why would Elias be concerned about aging? He’s in his sixties, and he still looks  _ gorgeous _ , nothing like Jon, who has hollow eyes and greying hair at  _ thirty _ . Jon traces the wrinkles at the sides of his mouth and wonders if he needs a little collagen cream, if no other reason than to keep up with Elias.

Jon continues his nosiness because he’s curious and because Elias won’t be particularly bothered. Probably. He opens the cabinet hidden behind the mirror and is surprised when he doesn’t find cosmetics. Of course, Elias keeps his medications in his  _ medicine _ cabinet. Jon pauses but proceeds when the desire for understanding overtakes him. Elias wouldn't have left his medications out if he wasn't fine with someone discovering them; that's the kind of person Jon knows Elias is.

Jon’s fingers trace the labels. The orange bottles are familiar to him, as he has a similar collection in his own flat. Jon is surprised by the volume of medication Elias takes. He shouldn’t be; he knows Elias is disabled, too. 

Intrigued by the contents of the bottles, he pulls one out. _Naproxen & Sumatriptan_, that's what Jon uses for migraines. Elias gets migraines, too, horrible, painful ones. He’s better at masking them than Jon is. A particular sense of dread augurs them. Jon’s seen that particular look in Elias’s eyes: a distant gaze, eyes slightly closed, a twitch in the lower lid. Sometimes it follows after Elias looks up and to the right or after he's been staring straight forward into space for a bit; both these things are his tells for when he's Looking elsewhere.

The worst migraine of Elias's that Jon can remember happened in Jon's office. They were arguing over something or another. It was vapid in hindsight, but at the time the minutiae of archiving seemed so important.

_ “The Archives are a complete mess, Elias! How can you expect me to make them accessible when I’m spending the majority of my time organizing misfiled statements!” _

Jon’s hands were firmly planted on his desk, and he was gritting his teeth in between shouting. Elias was calm as usual, head slightly tilted to the side as he listened to Jon, as though Jon were being the difficult one.

_ “Jon, really _ _ —” _

_ “Don’t ‘Jon’, me,”  _ Jon fumed, slamming his hand down on his desk so hard his pen holder fell onto the floor, scattering pens everywhere.  _ “My job is impossible, Elias! Decades old statements are in boxes next to ones from a few years ago, none of them are stapled _ _ —” _

_ “You’re stapling archived statements?” _ Elias lifted an eyebrow.

_ “I’ve had to use a tape recorder, an  _ antique _ , because none of them are recording to my laptop _ _ —”  _ Jon stopped abruptly, blinking at Elias.  _ “Well, yes, they were looseleaf, and I couldn’t have them scattered around so haphazardly, so I’ve been having Tim and Sasha staple them for me.” _

_ “Jon, that damages the integrity of the paper,” _ Elias stated bluntly,  _ “That may destroy older statements, some of which are already under significant duress.” _

_ “I—I—If you weren’t so  _ hands-off _ , that wouldn’t have happened!”  _ Jon sputtered.  _ “You give me so little direction; how can you expect me not to make those kinds of mistakes!?” _

_ “Because I expect my Head Archivist to have some idea of what he’s doing!” _ Elias’s voice was getting louder now.

_ “This was exactly the problem with Gertrude, wasn’t it?” _ Jon hissed,  _ “You refused to get involved, despite clearly knowing the Archives were out of control. Why did you let it get so bad?!” _

_ “Oh.  _ Ohhh _ , I see. This is my fault?”  _ A grin crept across Elias’s face, the kind that usually only showed when Elias was angry.

_ “Yes! Yes, it is!”  _ Jon fumed,  _ "If you had spent a modicum of effort managing her, my position wouldn't be impossible!" _

_ "A  _ modicum _ of effort _ _ —"  _ Elias stepped closer to Jon's desk, placing his hands on the surface and clenching them.  _ “You have absolutely no idea what I had to deal with, Jonathan. NONE.” _

_ “Oh, I’m sure keeping an old woman in line was the challenge of the century!” _

_ “I suggest you shut up about something you know nothing about!”  _ Elias snapped, baring his teeth.

_ “That I know nothing about, you prick? I deal with it every bloody day—” _

_ "It's certainly not my fault that she ruthlessly embarked on a campaign of anarchy against MY Archives—"  _ Elias's eyes shifted up and to the right, and he stopped mid-sentence.

_ "I do believe it is YOUR fault, Elias—Elias?" _

Jon remembers the screen on his laptop briefly flickering. He didn’t catch what the image was of. Something round at first, rotating? Meditating upon it, looking at himself in the mirror, Jon imagines that it might have been an eye. A video of an eye darting rapidly back and forth? Then something shriveled? A corpse maybe?

It doesn’t matter. The powers of every avatar interfere with electronics. Elias Beheld and got a migraine, and it had affected Jon’s laptop. Elias shakily brought a hand up to his face. His eyes were screwed shut and his teeth were gritted in pain.

_ "Elias? What is it?"  _ Jon walked around his desk to stand at Elias's side. Hesitantly, he placed a hand on Elias's shoulder.

_ "Nothing to worry about, just _ _ —ah—j—just a little migraine. _ "

Jon then heard the dripping and noticed the smattering of red on the floorboards.

Jon cupped Elias's jaw in his hands and tilted his head up. Pools of blood welled around the edges of his eyes, becoming thickest near the tear ducts where they mixed with tears and aqueous humor. It ran in macabre pink rivulets down his cheeks, along his jaw, and to his chin, where it dripped onto the floor. His irises shook slightly; his pupils were dilating and undilating as though the light in the room were shifting.

_"Elias, you need to go to the A &E," _Jon stated firmly, not taking his hands from Elias's face.

_ "No, no, there's no need for that—"  _ Elias pulled away, batting at Jon's hands.

_ " _ Elias. _ " _

_ "I said ' _ no _ ',  _ Jonathan _ ," _ Elias snapped.

There was a sudden fury in Elias's eyes, the kind of intensity Jon had only seen in cornered animals. Something profound lay behind Elias’s patina of mundanity; Jon didn’t want to uncover whatever was hidden beneath.

_ "Fine…”  _ Jon agreed, realizing Elias wasn’t going to listen, _ “But at least rest on the cot for a little while…" _

Elias reluctantly agreed and wrapped his arm over Jon’s shoulder to be led over to the little cot in the climate controlled room storeroom. He sat down, slouching forward to put his head in his hands. Jon stood there for a few moments staring at him, and, eventually, Elias stared back. It was one of the handful of times Jon noticed that Elias's eyes didn't quite fit his face. There was something too small about them; they made his sockets look hollow. With the blood surrounding them, it made Jon think of pitted cherries and grapefruit spoons. He doesn’t like to think of the implications of that.

Jon pulls out the next bottle.  _ Diazepam _ , for anxiety. Jon was put on that back in college. It wasn't the right fit. Jon hadn't taken Elias for the anxious type with all his cool confidence. He always seems to know what to do, even in the most dire of circumstances; Jon questions whether he really needs anti-anxiety medication.

But then Jon thinks about Leitner's corpse. It was laying there on his desk, dripping blood and brains onto the floor.

That moment wasn't in Elias's plan. 

Elias plans for everything. Jon’s gotten glances at his planner. It’s meticulous; he keeps track of every appointment, commits everything to memory. His entire life seems to be like that planner. His house is adorned in just the cluttered Victorian style he likes. His espresso cups are arranged uniformly in the blinding white cabinets in his kitchen. The pens on his desk are all expensive, and the one he uses the most came with its own wooden station that also holds his notepads.

Everything is so scrupulous in Elias's life, but Jon also knows that if one hair is out of place, Elias breaks down. What fear is boiling beneath such an immaculate persona, Jon wonders? What panic could make such a calm man explode so suddenly?

_ Chlorpromazine _ . The Eye tells him that's an antipsychotic. Jon wishes he were on an antipsychotic. The Archivist is always connected to the Watcher. While this connection facilitates the wellbeing and longevity of the Archivist, like an umbilical cord attached to the mother’s placenta, it also means that Jon is constantly bombarded by a stream of information. His mind is far too active, more than the average person could stomach, sometimes more than they could even survive. It gives the distinct feeling of mania, of dangerous overactivity, of overstimulation. Of psychosis and paranoia.

Jon wonders if the weight of omniscience takes its toll on Elias, too. Elias seems routinely calm, but Jon is beginning to wonder if that's merely a facade. There’s always activity bubbling just beneath the surface; his mind is always moving. Jon's mind continues to become busier as It comes to Know him.

What was Elias like when the Eye first chose him? Jon imagines someone young and vivacious, enthusiastic about the occult; Elias’s knowledge certainly suggests a profound eagerness. Perhaps there was even mania there? A young Elias would not seem out of place in a library late at night, pouring over a dozen dusty tomes, frantically writing notes. Jon’s found himself in that position far too many times to count. Perhaps that vein of overwork runs through all worshipers of Beholding. A number of Jonah Magnus’s letters remark on his diligence and subsequent exhaustion. Jon and Elias are both inheritors of a tradition of psychosis.

_ Topical CBD _ .  _ Topical THC _ . Both in cream form, in a little stick to smear on aching points on the body. Elias has fibromyalgia, like Jon, though he never talks about it. Jon just sees him using his vape pen in the office occasionally, usually on days when it's raining. Those days are the worst for Jon, too. Jon leans on his cane more heavily, spends more time in his chair, tries not to move until the painkillers kick in. Elias hides his pain. Elias doesn’t use a cane, even though he owns one. It’s sitting in the corner of his bedroom, and Jon sees it if he cranes his neck to look through the bathroom doorway.  Jon thinks it’s wasteful for Elias to spurn the resources he so obviously has, just for the sake of appearing able-bodied.

Elias despises appearing weak. Jon doesn’t know why, but it’s his modus operandi. Elias must always be strong, must always be in control, must never hint that he’s compromised or injured, except in those choice moments where he directs Jon to take control from him. The man is terrified of it, like a predator will jump from the darkness at any time to eat him alive. Jon pities that —he really does—but he would never admit that to Elias for fear of the man’s anger.

_ Testosterone Cypionate _ . Elias is trans, like him. Jon didn’t realize it at first, when he joined the Institute. Perhaps he would have suspected if he had paid attention to Elias’s height and the gentle sing-songiness of his voice that marked him as someone like Jon, someone  _ queer _ . But one can never really tell, and certainly not with someone who’s been taking T for several decades like Elias has. Jon passes, too, of course, but that never prevented Elias from Seeing him. In retrospect, Elias must have known from the moment he first touched Jon's application. That's probably why Elias hired him (that and Mr. Spider), as Elias only seems to hire other queer people.

They were having an afterwork meeting at a local cafe when Elias casually outed himself. Elias had taken Jon under his wing while Jon was still a researcher, and his mentorship included the occasional outing to one of the restaurants in the area. Jon thought he had misheard, but Elias quickly clarified. 

_ “I’m trans, Jon,”  _ Elias traced his finger around the edge of his cappuccino cup,  _ “And gay, too, for what it’s worth.” _

_ “O-Oh,” _ Jon stuttered awkwardly, pausing. He sputtered out a response when he realized his pause could be misinterpreted as discomfort with Elias’s gender,  _ “I _ _ —I mean, I, yes. I’m trans, too—” _

_ “I know.”  _ Elias smiled over the lip of his cup, taking a sip.

_ “Nonbinary, um, pansexual—w-wait, you knew?”  _ A bolt of fear struck Jon’s chest.

_ “You’re not clockable. Don’t worry.”  _ Elias shrugged.  _ “You simply have… that mien of endurance about you. Like you had to fight tooth and nail for something.” _

Jon didn’t know what to do with that information, initially. He resigned himself to being the only trans person in his workplaces, perpetually stealth in his professional life. That was not the case at the Institute. He and his superior shared this mutual confidence, and that brought him inevitably closer to Elias’s designs for him.

_ "People of our experience,"  _ Elias whispered one of the first nights Jon ended up in his bed.

It was before Jon became the Archivist, when he didn't suspect that their relationship was anything other than a stereotypical affair between boss and employee.

Jon saw only the faintest outline of Elias's face, illuminated by the faint blue light filtering in through the curtains. Their legs were tangled up as they pressed their naked bodies together under the sheets. Elias’s breath moved the strands of long hair laying over Jon’s forehead.

_ “People of our experience _ _ —trans people—are never given the luxury of ignorance,” _ Elias murmured like he was reciting a piece of scripture,  _ “We’re forced to dissect every part of ourselves and, in doing so, determine that society’s predetermined roles for us are lacking. That introspection is sacred, if you think about it.” _

_ “You think I’m holy?”  _ Jon chuckled at the time.

_ “I do,” _ Elias responded, brushing the hair from Jon’s face. His eyes looked older than his age.

Sinister as it is, there’s something profoundly flattering about being  _ chosen _ for Beholding. Why did Elias pluck him from obscurity, and not someone more competent, more curious, like Sasha or Tim?  _ No _ , he tells himself,  _ he wouldn’t want them to be victimized _ .

Is Jon a victim? The man in the mirror, rail-thin, scarred, with wide eyes and smudged glasses certainly looks like a victim. But Jon doesn’t feel like one. He feels more knowledgeable, more  _ in control _ , than he has ever felt in his life. The Eye has given him power he could have never dreamed of. It should unsettle him that he likes it so much.

There's one last bottle in the medicine cabinet.  _ Opiates _ . Jon takes the bottle of  hydrocodone  out and turns it over in his hand. Jon hates the way opiates make him feel, groggy and swimming and dumb. He doesn’t like to feel like that; he likes to be aware. He once assumed Elias would be the same, until he was truly acquainted with the man. Elias doesn’t have the same hesitation to use recreational drugs that Jon does; Jon’s seen him occasionally snort opiates late at night, on weekends where they had nothing to do but relax. He doesn't enjoy when Elias takes drugs before having sex. It doesn't feel right to have an unresponsive partner, but Elias has always brushed it off.

_ "It's fine, Jon, it's fine."  _ Jon hears Elias's voice in his head.  _ "It's relaxing, and I enjoy it. You want me to enjoy myself, don't you?" _

"Yes, I suppose," Jon says out loud to no one in particular, "But why wouldn't you want to be present when you're with me?"

Jon’s eyelids flutter as he thinks of Elias’s drowsy face. Elias with his eyes half-lidded, unresponsive, in bliss. He looked so relaxed while high. His breathing was slow, and it was so easy for Jon to move him.

After work and on weekends Elias sometimes wears loungewear: gray sweatpants, t-shirts —the kind of expensive athletic wear Jon sees in stores but never imagined Elias would wear until he met the man. Somehow, Elias looks dignified, even in an oversized hoodie and a pair of sweatpants that are so baggy that they look like they're about to slip off at any moment. He started noticing, however, that scattered on the high priced cloth were small, round holes. When he had the chance to rummage through Elias’s closet alone, he discovered they were burned spots, brown around the edges, like someone had dropped ash on Elias’s sweatpants.

_ “How odd,” _ He mumbled, sticking his fingers through the holes.

And how unlike Elias in every way. All of Elias’s clothing was lavish and unstained. He was always immaculate, yet his sweatpants had burn holes?

Jon found his answer soon enough, in an Elias that slurred his words and dropped mugs and didn’t remember what they had done last night in bed, no matter how panicked Jon’s tone was.

_ “It’s fine, Jon,”  _ Elias replied, flippant, tapping a pill of Naproxen and Sumatriptan into his hand for a migraine that had already started,  _ “It happens occasionally.” _

It isn’t fine. It never has been fine.

On another occasion, Jon found Elias standing still in the upstairs hallway, cigarette in his hand. He stared blankly at the wallpaper, entranced by the coiling, floral pattern, and every few moments his eyes would flutter while he stumbled. Jon was certain he was going to drop his cigarette, as he wasn’t smoking it.

_ “Elias? What’re you doing?” _ Jon asked, his voice coming out weak and quiet.

Elias simply stood there, swaying a bit, but not answering.

_ "Elias?" _

Elias's eyelids were half-closed, his mouth slightly ajar, but he wasn't responding.

Elias would be undoubtedly irritated if a dropped cigarette burned a hole in the carpet, so Jon approached and snatched it out of his hand.

_ "...Whuh _ _ —what…"  _ Elias sniffed and blinked a few times, then drowsily looked at the cigarette in Jon's hands.  _ "I was… I was smoking that." _

_ "You nearly burned the carpet,"  _ Jon snapped.

_ "It's fine, Jon…"  _ Elias absently pawed at the cigarette in Jon's hand, but it was hardly an attempt. He stumbled forward toward Jon, but Jon continued to hold the cigarette out of Elias's reach.  _ "I-I said it's fine, Jon—" _

_ "Why do you keep doing this to yourself?!"  _ Jon spat, suddenly very angry.

He still doesn't quite know.

The present Jon thinks of the shelves of medications in front of him and the neat, organized man he knows Elias to be. Elias must feel on edge all the time. There’s too much anxiety, too much danger, too much information, too much stimulation. The only time he can relax,  _ really _ relax, is when he's high. In a controlled environment, Elias cedes control. It’s exhausting to perform constantly.

There’s no sleep medication, Jon knows, because the cocktail of central nervous system depressants Elias takes will usually lull him to sleep once he gets tired enough. If not, he usually partakes in more THC before bed. He still sleeps less than the average person, and Jon is unsure if that's because he's an avatar or because of the nightmares that accompany that. Jon suspects Elias has nightmares, too. He must, since Jon is haunted every night by the victims whose statements he’s fed off of. Elias feeds off people, too, though Jon suspects that he enjoys the nightmares more than Jon does.

Jon needs Zolpidem to get to sleep now. Sometimes it doesn’t work, and Jon is left exhausted. He’s been running on a few hours of sleep and gratuitous amounts of coffee for a while now. It leaves him paranoid, irritable, and easily confused. The statements have helped ease his sour moods a bit, but he’s concerned that someday they may not be adequate —

“Looking for incriminating evidence?” Elias leans against the bathroom door frame, his arms crossed and that usual smug expression.

“N-No, I was just —shit!” The bottle of hydrocodone slips out of Jon’s grasp, bounces off the counter and rolls past the bathtub.

“It was a joke, Jon.” Elias walks over to pick up the bottle and glances at the label. “...You won’t find it there anyway.”

Elias is as crisp and ironed as usual, wearing a set of pajamas and a robe that probably cost more than Jon’s monthly rent. The robe is green and plush and soft (Jon knows because he’s borrowed it before), and Elias has a cute little pair of slippers with a brocade that Jon is sure went out of fashion in the 1880s. Elias walks back over to hand the bottle to Jon, and Jon stares at his manicured nails. He must have groomed right before Jon woke up.

“I  _ know _ ,” Jon quips after the pause.

Elias's eyes drift over Jon's face, apparently parsing his expression. “Surprised that I take so many?”

Jon runs his fingers over the bottle label as he places it back in the medicine cabinet. “No. I assumed that you did.

“Because you do, too.”

“Yes,” Jon sighs and leans back against the counter, “I suppose I’m surprised… That you’re not perfect.”   
Elias blinks and folds his arms. Jon thinks he may have surprised him.

"...I don't consider  _ our _ disabilities an imperfection, Jon."

"No, you must not; you wouldn't have let me see them if you considered them a flaw." Jon looks down and to the side, furrowing his brows. "I just mean… You're human."

Elias scoffs, "What else would I be?"

"I-I don't know—untouchable?" Jon motions to Elias's clothing. "Everything about you is seamless. You present yourself as this confident, nigh-omniscient academic. You’re fashionable, you always know what to say and I just, just,  _ don’t _ . I suppose I assumed… you’ve always been this way. But that really isn’t it, is it?” Jon stares into Elias’s eyes. “You’ve had to work for it.”

Elias’s face flattens into nonexpression, as it usually does when Elias is tired or particularly focused or overstimulated. Jon’s face flattens like that, too—his face is flat most of the time—because he has trouble masking that he doesn’t have the full range of expression that others do. Elias steps closer to him, cups his cheek, and looks deep into his eyes.

"...You're well aware of how difficult it is to mask ourselves for other people's convenience. Of course, I’ve had to work for it, Jon.”

Jon returns the gaze with a similar level of intensity and strokes Elias’s hand. “I’ve never been very good at it…"

"You will be," Elias replies quietly, "I've had many years of practice, years that weren't without their share of mishaps… Our patron's gifts aided significantly in my development, just as they will in yours. One day you'll be as seamless as I am."

"You're not even that much older than me," Jon snorts, unable to keep himself from smiling sadly, "What could thirty years even really do?"

"You would be surprised." There's that knowing twinkle in Elias's eyes again. "A few years can really change a man."   
Elias tilts his head and slowly presses a kiss to Jon’s lips. It’s gentle, and Jon closes his eyes and returns it. There’s something very comforting in understanding and being understood. And Elias understands him.

“Now.” Elias steps away, still holding Jon’s hand. “Would you care to join me for breakfast, Mr. Sims?”

“I would.” Jon smiles in return and follows his lover out of the bathroom.


End file.
